


So Much to Tell

by After_Baker_Street



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, M/M, Post Reichenbach, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does Sherlock do when everything he’s lived for is gone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much to Tell

**Author's Note:**

> If you get nervous, remember the tags. And the lack of archive warnings.
> 
> TW: references to undepicted suicide, death

>   
>  Lonely?  
>  Oh no, not me - I have a grave to dig.  
>  _\- Ben Howard “Esmerelda”_  
> 

  


He wakes, just breaking the surface of consciousness, from a deep, heavy sleep. The kind he normally avoids, preferring short naps. But things have been so safe lately, he even dreamed. And it was alright. He doesn’t open his eyes, working hard to remember the dreams (though he says they don’t matter, that our dreams mean nothing).

 _He always found me,_ he thinks. Dreams of varied urgency and horror. Losing his way in a dark, unfamiliar alley. John takes his hand. Drowning, the water filling his lungs and taking him under, chlorine burning his eyes. John, reaching for him, pulling him to the surface. An unknown assailant, the hope that he has bested Sherlock Holmes blazing in his eyes. And John there, pistol-whipping the man who’d dare touch Sherlock. John, John, always John. His hand reached out, careful and sure. John’s voice, guiding him in a maze, a labyrinth of his own design.

A brief spark of joy, John: with him even in his dreams. Even his name was like a talisman, that’s why Sherlock said it aloud so often. His senses extend to the bed and beyond. John, the weight beside him. A constant presence, now.

But John does not move. And it comes to Sherlock in a flash: John’s body cooling beside him in the bed. He’s gone.

A slow siren begins wailing in his heart.

 _No, no. There hasn’t been enough time,_ he thinks, desperate. Not enough time. _It hasn’t been long enough since John risked everything and said that he loves me._ Only eleven months, two weeks, four days, seven hours, (he could calculate it to the second if he opened his eyes, but he won’t. So he guesses), approximately forty minutes, maybe twenty seconds. The numbers flash behind his eyes. Fifty point four four six weeks. Three hundred and fifty three point one two five days. Eight thousand four hundred and seventy five hours. Around five hundred eight thousand five hundred minutes. Some thirty million five hundred and ten thousand seconds. Not enough time. Not nearly enough.

How? How will he go on without John? The work would be impossible. Never. Just the thought is absolutely repellant. John would be so disappointed. But John will never know. A brief flare of sadness for every mystery that remains unsolved. It feels like regret and he pushes it away.

But what does a man do when everything he’s lived for is gone?

Sherlock briefly considers a mix of chemicals already found in the flat that would kill him nearly instantly, though not painlessly. _No, too messy_ he decides. He would not want to leave a contorted corpse to distract from John’s still, peaceful body. A second, then a third series of chemical components occurs to him, he discounts them all. John’s secret stash of painkillers, left over from a time when the throbbing in his shoulder kept him awake? (At that thought, Sherlock remembers briefly that he has found a better way of soothing John’s aches; not just with his nighttime touch, but with the magic found in music. Sherlock can play John simple, pedestrian melodies to relax into. The music nearly hypnotizes him and he falls off to a sweet and dreamless sleep. A kick of pride in Sherlock’s chest before he turns away from that memory.) No, not enough tablets left in that packet, not near enough to bring about fatal respiratory depression.

His mind catches on the gun. John’s gun. Placed carefully in a bureau drawer. (“Not a plaything, Sherlock” John had chided him, mumbling “out of sight, out of mind” as he put it away.) The sound will surely wake Mrs Hudson. Although gunfire is not an unheard of occurrence at the flat, it will frighten her. He decides to put a note on the door, telling her not to come inside, but to phone 999 instead. He considers, briefly, that it will hurt her terribly to have both her “boys” gone in one morning. But there’s nothing for it. He will add an apology, explaining his reasoning to her. She will have to understand.

Should he pen final instructions to his brother? No, he does not want to spare his final moments on thoughts of family animosities, and Mycroft will find the letters in his papers (including one granting forgiveness to his brother, an indication that all debts are paid), with his will. They will have to be enough. The sections in his carefully crafted will and its codicils that applied to John will never be relevant. He always thought John would be the one finding those files, he did not want to imagine a world without John.

His mind turning swiftly from his goodbyes, Sherlock feels a rush of relief, of deep gratitude that they made love last night. They had moved together with unhurried grace and affection, so different from their first few months of anxious, fumbling (through exquisite) connection. Those early days had been fraught with inexperience; his - general, John’s - specific (and much more easily overcome). That things had changed so much was a reflection of the considerable time and investment they had both made, to learning each others bodies, to being gentle and considerate (a skill they developed together). In his easy way, John had taught him so much about the ways of pleasure in the body, things he had known, had read, but never thought were relevant to his own experience, to his own body.

John’s kindness during those intimate hours was total, his frank appreciation was complete. His every movement had whispered of the joy he took in Sherlock, in his body, in his mind. His gentle hands echoed his litany of loving words. Their time in bed was the one of the few when John reliably talked more than Sherlock; Sherlock was struck dumb by John’s honesty, his breathless passion and intensity. He was surprised, over and over again by the pleasure John brought him to, he found it impossible to articulate how extreme it was, how John had made him feel wordless, his clamoring mind silent and washed in sheer, blinding happiness.

John had climaxed the night before, whispering how he loved Sherlock, how _beautiful_ he was, how _amazing._ Soon after, those words thundering in his chest, he had found his own pleasure, John’s name ripped from his lips in an agony of ecstasy. After, as they lay bathed in comfort and closeness, Sherlock had, in his own tripped-up way, tried to tell John how much it meant. He hated how awkward he sounded, how his words were so far from his usual articulate clarity and eloquence. But John had shone with such obvious pleasure that it urged him on. He had said how John was the sun around which his cold planet spun, now that he was in the warmth of John’s orbit, he felt himself coming to life in a way he never had been before.

John kissed him then, laughing and saying how he loved Sherlock, the words coming easy and true as they always did. They curled together, their bed a tiny temple at which they could worship the other. Sherlock wished, in that same bed, that he had told John he loved him many more times, that he had not wasted so much of their precious time, that he had told John he loved him so much earlier, years ago.

Before John’s late-night confession of love, Sherlock had been sure he would die of loving John. He didn’t even realize it was love for a long time, but it was taking up space in his heart, in his head, in the work. It had come to him with terrible clarity, like all his deductions. All at once, and impossible to ignore. It happened after an accident, such a minor one. He had fallen hard, giving chase after a suspect. His scalp had bled freely, but gave himself a quick once-over and knew he didn’t have a concussion, so he continued on. When he returned home to find John back from the surgery, John had been startled and seemed scared to hear of the danger Sherlock had subjected himself to. He had looked over Sherlock’s head carefully in the bright light of the bathroom. Sherlock sat on the counter, eyes moving away from John. John’s warm, clever hands moved gently through his hair. His heart thumped in his chest like a drum.

“Does it hurt?” his too-observant John had asked when he saw Sherlock’s pulse jumping at his neck. “Yes.” Sherlock had said quietly, happy to have a half-truth to cover the truth. John’s fingers moving around his injury, pain and pleasure wrapped into one. Sherlock felt a flush gather at his chest, move to spark color into his cheeks as John fussed over him and cleaned the cut. It was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds to feel the warmth of John pressed against his side, his hands moving over his skin.

He could not remember, now, why he had stalked away silently, shutting the door to his room nearly on John’s surprised face. It had been a long, difficult night. He stayed awake, the ghosts of John’s hands moving over him until he had to stifle a sob in his pillow. The next morning had been especially difficult, John stared at him strangely, looking open and vulnerable in an absurd striped jumper. Sherlock was only just able to bite back his affection by saying something cruel. John just turned his head, as if he couldn’t hear it, and left the room.

He had been so cruel. Especially when he had hurt John terribly, so long ago (but not so long, really). When he had hurt him to save him (hurt him though he loved him, hurt him because he loved him). He would not think on it, he would have deleted it if he could. Instead, he chose another memory to savor, just for a moment. He decided on the night John had finally ended his relationship with Karen (or was it Kara?). Sherlock remembers, with absolute clarity, John’s face when he shuffled, almost absently, into the sitting room. Hurt was clear on his face. How he had panicked, to not know how to comfort John, and at the same time there was the fear that he would leave, go out for a pint with his friends from work, or mates from his schooldays. Instead of stay. So he had tried his best, had moved his feet from the sofa where he’d been stretched out, signaled John to come and sit.

And John sat next to him, started talking. Sherlock had to remember to listen instead of watch John’s clever, small hands. John had said Karla hadn’t wanted the same things, would never marry, never want a family, never settle down. _I could do that,_ Sherlock thought, but did not say, I could do that, with you. Well, except settle down. Being with John would not feel like settling down, it would feel like something else - maybe settling up? Was settling up a thing, was it possible that he would ever come home to John and his heart would not start rattling in his chest? He said none of those thoughts aloud either.

John had gone on, Sherlock nodding and agreeing in what he hoped were the right places. He eventually made them tea, sat even closer to Sherlock when he returned. Sherlock’s outstretched arm along the back of the sofa was nearly around John, once John brushed against his open hand, he could not stop himself from stroking the slightly tatty edge of his too-often laundered jumper. John had not been startled by the touch but had leaned into it. His mind racing, Sherlock knew he had to have a reason for such an intimate thing, so he led his hand down, turning it into a backrub. John sighed, went quiet. Even closed his eyes. Sherlock doubted, very seriously, if this was something flatmates usually did. Gave each other a gentle backrubs after breaking off relationships with women.

As if wishing could make a thing happen, John stayed with him until late that night. They had watched movies on telly, ones even Sherlock couldn’t remember because he was too busy feeling the electric sensation of John, pressed against his arm and then eventually against his side. He concentrated very hard on memorizing John’s scent: warm and surprisingly sweet beneath his inexpensive sandalwood shaving soap. On John, Sherlock could nearly taste every note in that shave soap. Beneath the crisp but warm sandalwood was the sharp citrusy lemongrass, wild cinnamon, the dark geranium, rose and balsam, cloying spice and clove.

Sherlock had been glad, then, that he could not detect pheromones consciously. As it was, he watched John’s tongue slide across his lips after he took a drink of his tea and he nearly forgot to breathe.

John had brought him into the world of the senses, had taught him the body was so much more than a vessel. Now he would leave the world of the senses behind, again. Sherlock did not believe there was any world beyond this one, he did not entertain thoughts of the supernatural. He just knew that this world would be unbearable, would be impossible without John. But, even if they hadn’t had it, he wished had told John everything he thought about what he could give him. That even if John hadn’t lived to realize such a dream, he should have known Sherlock wanted to see what a thoughtful, caring father John would make. He should have told John that he knew they would not be able to continue working as they had, that they should take fewer cases, throw themselves in front of maybe a little less danger. That (imaginary? future?) life had existed so perfectly in Sherlock’s mind; he would write and return to raising his beloved bees, John could work as he wanted (somewhere safe, in an office). They could spent their time together, have many rows over how to raise the dark-haired child that lived only in Sherlock’s imagination.

That possibility was gone forever now, that life forever unlived.

A strangled, sudden sound escaped Sherlock with that terrible thought. He would never show John the small box tucked (hidden, really) in the drawer of his desk. Marriage was a pointless and outdated tradition without any meaning in particular to Sherlock, but it wasn’t to John. Besides, he wanted to see the silver shining on John’s hand, the titanium so much like John - surprisingly strong and incorruptible. Matching rings were set with dark bands of stone taken from a meteorite. Sentimental, Sherlock knew, but he wanted to show John how he had been like that foreign rock - bringing in a whole universe of possibility to a dark planet. He knew John’s would fit, he had studied his hands in-depth. If asked, he could create a photo-realistic sketch of them in minutes.

He would never see the spark of surprise in John’s eyes, but they could serve a final purpose, to mark John as his own, in a way. So he revised his plan, to open his eyes, to fetch the rings from his desk (where he would write Mrs Hudson’s note), and then the gun. He would put the ring on John’s finger before...before the end. He would want to hold John’s hand as it happened, for strength.

He did not want to open his eyes. He knew the grief would unman him, if he let it. Strike the breath from his lungs. Opening his eyes would mean that it was that much closer to being over, and he could not bear it for long. That noise had already escaped him, and it was the sound of a sob choked off. Given time, it would find its way to the surface again.

He sees, in his mind’s eye, something close to what it will look like. One man, tall and fair, his dark curls marred by the broken skull (but his face will be peaceful, despite the halo of blood and worse behind him). The consulting detective, no mystery in the end. Death makes everyone ordinary. The other smaller man, his compact, sensible body relaxed, agile hands forever still. Gold, early morning light will dust the bodies, gently fall on the only face he ever loved. The image of the two of them, frozen in time, holds a certain appeal to Sherlock. It gives him strength.

But he would see John’s face again. Before the end. Not John’s kind, cobalt eyes, just his face. At least once more. So he opens his eyes slowly.

At that moment, John breathes in sharply, driven awake by Sherlock’s sharp sound of grief. Less than a second has passed since Sherlock was pulled from sleep by John shifting his position only slightly. John’s eyes flicker over Sherlock quickly, assessing for danger. A sob rips its way from Sherlock’s throat, relief pressing down on him.

He pulls the bewildered man almost impossibly close, running his fingers through grey blonde hair. Joy bursts low and burns bright in his chest like the birth of a star. 

"John, John,” he cries, his voice ragged, “I have so much to tell you.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who sent me encouragement and helped shape this story along the way.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me until the end. See, I said everything was going to be okay! 
> 
> This whole piece is an exploration of what a terrible burden it is to have a mind that's like a "rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad" in the context of a relationship.


End file.
